ReWired
by Ericka Jane
Summary: Dean should've known. Hell, he has known for a while now. He just chose to be happy about having Sam back in his life instead of making  too much  noise about his brother being a pod person. Season 6 spoilers. Sammy fix-it fic.


**A/N**: So, this is my first ever prompt fulfillment, which I am both nervous and excited about. It's an adopted plot bunny from the OhSam community over at LJ (I'll post the bunny at the end in case you don't want to be spoiled.) And well, it kinda did what most of my fics do and turned into something that I originally didn't plan. But it meets the prompt requirements, which was all I was really going for.

**General health warning**: For the love of god, if you value your sanity and want to keep your stomach contents, do NOT Google image the word 'laceration.'

**(Usual and predictable) Warnings**: Blood/gore, angst, language, (some) bullshit medical talk, possible schmoop/smarm. And I kinda-maybe-sorta made Grandpa and the Campbell's part of the problem *cough_Enemies_cough* Purely self indulgent.

**Spoilers:** For all season 6 episodes currently aired in the USA.

* * *

_Afrit lore: The Afrit is a spirit demon who rises up like smoke from the blood of murder victims. Due to the unjust and brutal nature of the victim's death, the Afrit is said to inspire unspeakable terror and is ruthless to their victims. It is said to take on the appearance of a Devil-like beast, with hooves and horns. Driving a new nail through the blood stained ground is said to prevent the spirit from rising. _

* * *

**ReWired**_  
_

They're too late to save the girl, probably by mere moments. The blood puddle is still steadily growing wider as the remaining life essence drains from the victim; it's still thick and warm. Dean feels something in his chest pull as he stares at the carnage. The tightness is a feeling that he long ago associated with hunts gone bad, failed tries, and lives lost. That's the thing about hunting; the kills get easier with every monster, the deaths never do.

Dean tears his eyes from the corpse on the hardwood floor and opts to stare at Sam instead. Sam's looking down at the body, his features a perfect expression of stone. If Dean didn't know any better he'd think that his brother was staring at a drying patch of paint.

"Pretty horrible," Dean comments offhandedly, still staring at Sam and trying to catalog his reaction.

"Mmhm," Sam agrees nonchalantly. There's no change in his expression.

Dean's eyes narrow as he presses forward, "Can you imagine what this poor woman went through? I don't think there's a drop of blood left in her."

"I'm sure she was dead before she bled out," Sam corrects and then looks at Dean, "You ready? There isn't much we can do here."

Dean blinks as Sam steps _over _the body, breezes past Dean, and then exits the house. It takes a few moments for his brain to catch up but when it does, it clicks all the pieces of the last few weeks together. It's at that moment that he decides that Sam came back wrong, and that something needs to be done about it.

* * *

He's hesitant to call Bobby after he got his ass chewed out last time. He knows that Bobby loves them but he'd feel weird calling about the same problem this early after everything. Cas will obviously be useless since he's occupied with the civil war upstairs. Not to mention the fact that the angel still maintains that Sam's return is "surrounded in mystery." And fuck all if he's about to call Gramps and the Cabbage Patch Kids, especially since he's not totally convinced that they aren't involved somehow.

That means it's down to him. Him and Sam.

Feels like old times.

Dean's taken out of his thoughts when Sam shuts the laptop on the other side of the room and starts rattling off case facts.

"Alright," Sam starts, "Here's what we have: four victims. One, the first one, was just a plain ole' murder victim. His murder or more like his blood, sprouted up the Afrit, which has killed the last three people. We put a nail in the floor where the blood was but it did jack squat to stop it, so now we're left with the old fashioned way, which is beheading it with a blessed ax. Hey, are you listening?"

"Yeah, I'm listening," Dean replies, "Blessed ax to the head, got it. Fun times."

Sam frowns but it looks so plastic that Dean's immediately reminded of the Stepfords, "You ok?"

Dean plasters on an equally fake smile, "Peachy keen, Sammy."

Sam goes back to his notes like nothing had been said at all.

An hour later Dean finds himself following Sam into what they suspect will be the next victim's house. Sam has the ax, which looks like it belongs in a twisted Barbie play set with how small it looks in his hands. Dean has the trusty sawed-off by his side, more for reassurance than anything, because rock salt isn't going to do much against an Afrit.

Dean keeps watch while Sam kneels down and picks the lock to the front door. A series of clicks and fifteen seconds later, the tumbler clunks, and the doorknob twists under Sam's grip. Sam looks up at Dean for confirmation and then moves forward at his brother's nod.

They creep silently in the house as their heavy boots leave marks in the plush carpeting. They clear the first floor and share a silent look of agreement to check out the second level. Sam goes first, ax hefted halfway as he stealthily makes his way up the stairs and down the hall. Dean follows, re-checking everything that Sam has already cleared.

A scream makes them both start and then immediately spring into action.

Sam wastes no time busting down the door at the end of the hall, barely taking a second to evaluate the situation before jumping headfirst into it. The Afrit has the woman by the throat and has her dangling off the ground like a piece of bait. She appears unharmed, if not horribly frightened. The Afrit itself is huge; seven feet tall including the bull-like horns on top of his head and God only knows how much the thing weighs.

Dean immediately fires the sawed-off, knowing that it won't kill the thing but hopefully it'll stun it enough to drop the woman. If they get lucky it'll give Sam the chance to go in there swinging. The Afrit jerks and releases the woman, who drops and scrambles away. Sam moves in with eerie determination on his face.

"C'mon, come here!" Dean shouts as he holds out his hand to the traumatized house owner. She launches forward, catching Dean's hand in a death grip. He pulls her behind him and then nudges her out the door, "Run outside, don't stop, don't look back. Go!"

She takes off and Dean turns his attention back to Sam, who's having some kind of stand off with the Afrit. Dean takes a micro second to realize how weird this is before he raises the sawed-off, intending on firing again. However, Sam is directly in the line of fire and doesn't seem like he's planning on moving any time soon.

Dean stares anxiously, his finger itching to tug back the trigger, "Sam, drop!"

Sam either isn't listening or doesn't like the idea, because he backs up a few steps and then full on tackles the Afrit like a fricken quarter back. When Sam connects the Afrit reflexively wraps its claws around Sam's middle. The force behind Sam's tackle pushes both of them backwards. Instead of collapsing to the ground with what would've been a rumble great enough to rival an earthquake, the pair of them ride the waves of momentum right out the window.

Dean watches with helpless horror as Sam and the Afrit go tumbling through the glass pane, and disappear from sight in the October darkness.

"Sam!" Dean shouts as he turns on his heel and starts to haul ass out of the house. His heart hammers as his boots pound through the down the stairs, adrenaline erases all thoughts from his mind except, "Please be ok, please be ok, please be ok." He bursts out the front door, startling the house owner who is cowering on the porch, and immediately runs to the other side of the house.

"Sam!" He skids to a stop and takes in the scene. There's the Afrit, now dead, with its head separated from its body. And then there's Sam, who's kneeling next to it, covered in blood, ax in hand. Dean runs.

"Sammy, hey," Dean says raggedly, his chest heaving with exertion and fear, "You ok?" He bends down to get a better look at his brother, attempting to see through all the blood in order to determine how much of the red stickiness is Sam's.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Afrit's dead, though," Sam replies simply, motioning to the dead beast with the ax.

"Thanks for the memo, Einstein," Dean responds. His heart isn't really in mediocre jibe, it's in trying to identify any injuries on Sam. He walks around the Afrit's body to get to Sam's opposite side, and that's when he sees it.

"Holy shit!" Dean yells and drops the sawed-off as he crashes to his knees next to Sam's side. His hands clench and unclench, ghosting over Sam's body like he doesn't know what to do, "Oh my god, Sam…"

"What? What's the matter?" Sam asks in honest to God confusion as he looks at Dean, and then looks at his torso, "Oh."

"Oh?" Dean repeats hysterically, "Sam, your side is torn open, I think 'oh,' is a bit of an understatement!"

Dean struggles out of his jacket to get to his henley underneath, and promptly rips it over his head once he's able.

Sam stares at his mangled flesh while Dean struggles to find a way to use the henley to stop the bleeding. "Doesn't hurt."

"What the hell do you mean it doesn't hurt? Sam, I can see your fucking insides!" Dean rants. God, it's the truth too. He can see all kinds of things in Sam's side that he isn't supposed to be able to see. Things like rib bone, muscle, and what he thinks is a hint of intestine. Sam stares at the claw marks and Dean's stomach lurches. He pushes down the sudden need to vomit, telling himself that as long as Sam's gushing blood, there's more important things he needs to be doing.

Dean folds up the shirt, quickly yanks his belt out of his jeans, and hesitantly straps the shirt to Sam's wound. Then he grabs Sam's forearm and gently pulls him upright.

"C'mon, we should've been at the hospital like, yesterday," he says and herds Sam to the Impala.

"What about the Afrit? We have to burn…"

"The damn Afrit can wait, Sam, your fricken guts are practically spilling out! Hospital. Now. Afrit. Later," Dean shouts as he slams the passenger door shut and slides across the hood to get to the driver's side.

Sam stares at him, his eyes drooping, and shrugs, "Ok."

Dean's worry skyrockets and he reaches over to keep one hand firmly wrapped around Sam's wrist, feeling the light – but for now, steady – pulse under his fingers, "Stay awake, you hear me? You have to stay awake, Sam."

Sam throws him a shaky thumbs up and Dean slams the pedal to the floorboard, riding the motor hard all the way to the hospital.

It's one of the worst car rides Dean's ever been through and coming from someone who spends ninety percent of his life in a car, that's saying something. Sam barely stays conscious through the whole thing, even though he insists that nothing hurts. Dean wants to call bullshit but he can't because he hasn't seen Sam so much as flinch the entire time. Assuming it was the Afrit who ripped Sam open, Dean wonders if there was some kind of numbing or paralyzing agent on it's claws. That'd explain Sam's lack of pain. If it was the glass from the window that cut him, then Dean's going to assume that Sam's in some serious shock. Any other option has his stomach trying to climb up his throat.

They're barely twenty seconds into the ER before nurses rush them, shooting off questions and then staring in shocked horror when they see Sam's wound. Dean's barely aware of what's going on when Sam's rushed behind the ominous double doors. He stands in the middle of the sterile white room for a moment before he realizes that A) he's covered in blood and dirt, and B) everyone in the ER waiting room is openly staring at him. He glares at the nearest person gawking and then exits the ER. He figures if he wants to get anywhere near Sam while he's in the hospital he should be less of a contagion.

After pacing in the parking lot with his hands locked behind his head and then puking from the adrenaline crash and the memory of seeing his brother's _intestine_, he changes clothes. Then he calls Cas.

Dean sighs and leans against the Impala, "Hey, Cas, I uh…know you're busy with civil war and douchebag relatives and all that, but I could really use your help. Sam's…he's not right. There's something seriously wrong and now he's got a monster gash in his side, and it's just wrong. No one else seems to know the deal, so just, please…"

He feels the tell-tale presence by his side before he hears the subtle rustle of fabric to announce the angel's presence, but he takes a step back, because Castiel still seems to have a problem with personal space.

"Thanks, for coming. I know you're…"

"Is Sam alright?" Castiel interrupts.

"Ok, so much for pleasantries," Dean comments, " No, not really. I don't know, Cas. I have no friggin idea. He's like a damn Stepford wife and I know, I know he was in the cage and that has to do something to you, but this isn't right. And then he goes and gets his side clawed open, and he doesn't even _flinch_. It was all the way down to the bone, Cas, and he treated it like a paper cut. And so help me, if you say he's simply 'changed...'"

Dean's threat is cut off when his name is announced over the hospital loud speaker, and he's back inside before he can even tell his brain to run. A quick glance tells him that Castiel lent a hand in the speedy travel.

He rushes up to the first nurse he sets eyes on and attacks, "Where's my brother? Is he ok?"

The nurse blinks at him and Dean curses, rolling his eyes, "I'm Dean, Dean…" he pauses for a second, trying to recall what insurance card he threw at the receptionist, "MacKenzie."

"One moment, Mr. MacKenzie, I'll page Sam's doctor," she replies and then scurries over to the phone.

"Is he even alive?" Dean shouts, but he's ignored in favor of the phone.

"Sam's alive," Castiel offers from behind him.

"How do you know?"

Castiel stares.

"Right. Angel," Dean mutters to himself, but feels his heart start to calm at the knowledge that Sam's still alive and breathing.

The double doors swing open revealing a short, thin man with dark hair and square glasses, "Dean."

"Yeah," Dean responds and steps closer to the doctor.

"I'm Dr. Olds, I'm Sam's primary," he says as he clasps Dean's hand in a handshake.

"Is he okay?" Dean immediately asks.

"I suppose that would depend on your definition of 'okay'"

Dean's overworked adrenaline kicks in one more time, "What the hell does that mean?"

Dr. Olds glances at Castiel as if he's unsure if he should continue with the company present, but pushes on anyways, "Your brother was cut very deeply and luckily it's all flesh and muscle damage. I don't know how but he was lucky enough not to nick any organs. With a wound this deep there is serious concern for infection, but we'll start him on antibiotics right away in hopes of preventing that. He lost quite a bit of blood but as soon as we get him stitched up completely, we'll start him on a transfusion. As long as he takes it easy and takes care of the wound there should be no problem."

"I sense a 'but' here," Dean says with a suspicious look.

"Were you aware that your brother has CIPA?"

Dean blinks, "The hell is that?"

"Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis," Dr. Olds supplies, "It's a genetic disorder, extremely rare. It makes the carrier completely unable to feel pain."

Dean blinks, "What? No, that can't be right. Sam's been hurt plenty of times before and I know that he's felt it."

Dr. Olds sighs, "I can't explain it but there's no other justification. He didn't react to any kind of pain stimulus at all. With this kind of wound, there would understandably be a fair amount of discomfort, but your brother just didn't react. Not to anything. We'd have to run some more tests to be sure but I'm near positive that this is the explanation."

Dean rubs his hand over his face, "Is it possible that he's just in shock?"

"No amount of shock could mask that kind of pain," Dr. Olds states firmly.

"So now what?"

Dr. Olds shrugs, "Carry on living like you were, same as your brother. He has to be careful, obviously. Pain is the body's way of letting you know something is wrong and without that signal, things can get ugly fast, as you found out tonight. He just needs to be aware, that's all."

Dean stares, still trying to take in and process what he's being told. While he's doing this, Dr. Olds glances at his watch, "I need to get back. You should be able to see your brother soon. Oh, before I forget…" the doctor digs into his lab coat pockets, "Here are Sam's belongings."

Dean takes the sealed plastic bag from him and looks at the contents: phone, keys, wallet, and a gum wrapper. For whatever reason Sam wasn't packing or carrying any hidden knives, which Dean is thankful for. Weapons in the hospital tend to cause chaos.

"Thanks, Doc," Dean says absently before turning around to lower himself into a waiting room chair.

Dean should've known. Hell, he has known for a while now. He just chose to be happy about having Sam back in his life instead of making noise about his brother being a pod person. He should've known though because ignoring problems hasn't gotten them anywhere over the years. Where'd it get him this time? In a hospital with nothing but an angel for company (who'd, by the way, rather be spending his time in heaven being an evading asshole), and a brother who's lacking some fundamental human emotions, and is also bleeding out in some room behind the yellow tape.

It's days like today that he really misses being a construction worker and throwing barbecues in the backyard.

"Sam will be fine."

Hearing the voice, Dean glances over to his left. The look is brief enough to register the angel's stiff posture in the hardwood chair and the tan trench coat.

"Yeah, no thanks to you and your dick brigade upstairs," Dean grumbles with an aggravated, almost subconscious roll of his eyes upwards.

And yeah, he's pissed. He's pissed that he didn't do something about this sooner because he's known from the get go that Sam was off. He's pissed about the year missing between them, about the Brady Bunch that Sam's aligned himself with, and about Cas deciding to be a heaven robot again. He's even pissed about the fact that he has to miss Ben's last soccer game of the season.

Mostly he's just pissed because he's worried. He can still feel the fear tingling against the ends of his nerves from the sight of all the blood, of the deep cut that revealed muscle, bone, and goddamn organs. It's a sight that Dean's pretty sure is going to be burned into the back of his head for the rest of his life.

"I do not have a brigade. I am not a general."

Dean closes his eyes, "Cas, do us both a favor and just shut up."

"You are angry."

"You noticed."

"Why?"

Dean glares, a deadpan look that would have most humans shrinking back, "You really have to ask?"

Castiel leans forward, pressing his forearms to his knees and sighs, "I have told you. I did not – do not – know how Sam got out of the cage. No one in heaven does…"

"That you know of," Dean interrupts.

"…So tell me, Dean, how would I know about this?"

Dean doesn't have an answer and they both know it, just like they both know that it's not Castiel he's really mad at. Even though Cas is back on team heaven, he still considers the angel to be a close friend and ally, and he knows that he wouldn't withhold information from him when it comes to Sam's health.

"Can you fix it?" Dean finally asks.

"Do you really want me to?"

Dean scoffs, "What kind of question is that? Sam walked in here looking like a b-rated slasher flick victim!"

Castiel's brow furrows, "I don't…"

"Understand that reference. Got it," Dean finishes with an eye roll, "Just fix em' so he knows when his insides are on the outside, ok?"

"You realize that if I do this, Sam's memories of the cage will be palpable."

Dean's jaw tightens and the muscle jumps, "I know."

"Perhaps we should ask Sam if this is what he wants," Castiel continues.

"Yeah, because Captain Spock totally knows what's up and what's down right now."

"I do not know who Captain Spock is," Castiel says, "But I imagine Sam would not be happy with you making decisions for him."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it, he's a big boy now. He's also my brother and my partner, and if something's going on that could get him or both of us killed, then I have a say. And I say that you fix it."

Castiel doesn't answer and Dean takes the lack of response as agreement. Now all they have to do is wait.

* * *

Turns out they don't have to wait long before they're taken back to Sam's room. He's still unconscious from the anesthesia and looking extremely pale from the blood loss. Dean swallows and looks at Castiel, nodding once in confirmation. Castiel moves to fix Sam's scrambled nerves but the shrill ringing of a cell phone stops him. Dean frowns, noticing that it's not his phone, and then looks at the plastic bag with Sam's cell still zipped inside.

Lit up on the LED screen is 'Samuel.' Dean glares at the name and then looks at Cas, "Hold on a sec."

He rips open the bag and flips open the phone, "Sam's phone."

"Dean?" the voice on the other side asks.

"Gramps, hey, how's it going?" Dean replies with false cheeriness.

"Great, just finished up a wendigo hunt. Your brother right there?"

"Uh, yes and no. We're at the hospital. Sam took a header out of a window when we were trying to kill an Afrit. He's okay, though."

Samuel snorts, "The hospital? Why'd you do that? Kid's a trooper, not like he needs the pain meds or anything."

Dean freezes as realization hits him and a slow boiling pit of anger starts to form in his gut, "You know. You know that Sam can't feel pain."

"Course I know. Hell, I've been huntin' with the kid for the past year, how could I not know?"

"And what, you didn't think that it was important information to share?" Dean starts to rage.

"No, I didn't. Your brother's a good hunter, Dean. And with his inability to feel pain? Kid's like a fortress. I've never seen anyone hunt the way he can."

Dean's hand tightens on the phone and he hears the plastic creak, "Let me get this straight. You knew about Sam's re-wiring, and you, what? Used him as your own personal Terminator? You son of a bitch."

"Listen, son. Monsters now days are out of pattern, they're doubling in numbers, and they're unpredictable. We needed all the help we could get," Samuel defends, his voice tight with irritation. Dean's immediately reminded of his own father trying to defend his parenting and hunting decisions.

"Okay. Well you listen to me, you bastard. You and your band of freaks are going to stay away from me and my brother, you hear me? Sam came back with a few screws loose and I'm willing to bet you did too. The only difference is, I trust Sam not to kill me in my sleep. So go back to hunting with your buddies and leave me and Sam out of it," Dean growls as he stares at his unconscious sibling, making a silent vow to stay clear of the Campbell's at all costs.

"We are your blood, Dean. Your family. Your _mother's_ family. We are all in this together whether you like it or not, and you will respect me." Samuel's voice is deadly serious but Dean's not concerned. If he has to he will take out them and anyone else who tries to mess with him, or his brother. He's sick of the Winchesters being played like puppets. They did their deed to the world, played their parts in the starting and stopping of the apocalypse, and now he just wants things to be the way they should be.

"Family, right," Dean echoes back sarcastically, "Tell me, what do you think your daughter would think about you using her son as a secret weapon?"

Dean lets that sink in for a moment before continuing, "I'm only saying it one more time and it's your fair warning, lose our numbers."

Then he clicks the phone shut.

Dean looks back at Castiel, who's been watching the whole exchange with his head slightly tilted.

"Do it, Cas."

Castiel doesn't waste a second and lays his hand on Sam's forehead. Dean watches and feels relief flow through him, cooling the previous anger. There might also be a small hint of satisfaction because in a backwards kind of way, he's telling Samuel to stick it.

* * *

Sam wakes a few hours later. Earlier, Dean had forced the nurses to give him morphine. He knew once Sam woke up he'd be feeling that mile deep hole in his side. Part of him wanted to test to see if Cas' mojo worked but he didn't want it bad enough to have his brother wake up in agony. He'd find some other way.

Just as Sam's blinking awake, Dean leans over and pinches the skin on his forearm, hard. Sam jerks and his eyes fly open, "Ouch! What was that for?"

Dean sighs in relief, "Wake up call, Sammy."

"Asshole," Sam mutter as his eyes slip shut again, "God, what happened to me? I feel like I was hit by a tank."

"Fell out of a window. With an Afrit. Who tore open your side," Dean lists, "Can't do anything half way, can you?"

"I don't really remember any of that," Sam replies and then sweeps his gaze over Dean, "You ok?"

Dean will swear to the end of his days that it was the dry hospital air that made his eyes water. It wasn't because in that moment he knew that Sam was really back,_ his_ Sam. And it definitely wasn't because it had been more than a year since he'd seen that expression on Sam's face, concerned and 100% little brother. Nope, not at all.

"Yeah, Sammy. I'm fine," Dean finally responds, feeling his mouth stretch into a legitimate smile for the first time since he's been back with Sam.

"Good," Sam replies and then starts thoughtfully, "Afrits are slimy bastards. They're apparently supposed to be one of the most feared spirits in lore…"

Sam drifts off and his eyes widen in realization, "You pinched me."

Dean nods once, his lips pursed, "I know, Sam. Cas fixed it. There a reason why you didn't share with the class?"

Dean sees Sam close down instantly and he immediately feels tired at the thought of trying to break through Sam's barriers again.

"C'mon, Sam, I'm not trying to fight, here. I just want to understand where your head's at, man. Something like that could get you killed. Hell, you almost bit it today. So what gives?"

Dean can literally see Sam trying to work up the courage to answer, but he waits. He feels like he's been given a second, _second_ chance, and he doesn't want to screw it up.

"I didn't think it was a big deal," Sam starts, his voice low and his eyes on his fingers, which are picking at the hospital blanket, "I figured that they either screwed something up when they…who ever 'they' are…pieced me back together and yanked me from the cage. But, mostly I just thought…"

Sam breathes hard and Dean can see the moisture starting to gather in the rims of Sam's eyes, "I thought that after the pit, I was just used to pain, you know? Just built up one hell of a tolerance. Because the cage was…God, Dean, it was just…"

Sam doesn't finish but he doesn't have to. Dean's been to hell, he stayed there for forty years, but even he can't imagine what horrors played out in Lucifer's cage. Selfishly, he doesn't know if he wants to know.

"It's ok, Sam," Dean reassures and clasps a hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezing lightly, "It's gonna be ok."

And if the dry hospital air got to him again right then, when Sam looked at him with trust and love and all those other things that have been missing for so long, then Dean might not argue with it. Might.

* * *

A/N: This was the prompt: _What if Sam came back from hell and for whatever reason (emotional/physical/?) he is now incapable of feeling pain? _


End file.
